


Emerald City

by qthelights



Category: Bon Jovi, Rock Music RPF
Genre: 80s rock, Angst, Courage, Friendship, Inspired by Real Events, Love, M/M, Richie's leaving, Rock Stars, love isn't always enough, self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie's always followed Jon. Always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emerald City

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt to understand Richie's leaving Bon Jovi. How does a man who so clearly loves his brothers come to that decision, to just not turn up one day? What pushes two good guys to split so dramatically? Note, hopefully this doesn't come across as blaming one or the other of the guys, I'd like to think that there's no one at fault, just a set of circumstances that led somewhere unexpected. That it's a place the boys can come back from. Hey, a girl can dream.

> _“You, my fine friend, are a victim of disorganised thinking. You are under the unfortunate delusion that simply because you run away from danger you have no courage; you’re confusing courage with wisdom.” - The Wizard of Oz_

Richie loves Jonny, and that means that he wants to make him happy whenever he can. He wants everyone to be happy, but no one more so than Jon. And its been that way since the start.

There’s a fair amount of shit that Richie can’t remember from the 80s. There was a lot of sex, drugs and booze amongst the rock ‘n’ roll. He goes back and forth on which occured in the highest concentration. Despite the gaps, some things are burnt into his brain; their first number one, the day Jon fired Doc, mom and pop Bongiovi making him pasta that first day he and Jon met, writing songs on the beach outside Jon’s apartment. One memory he keeps coming back to is this time that happened when they all lived in Philly, po’ as shit, all five of them stuffed into the one apartment, mattresses littering the floor wherever they could nudge aside empty beer bottles. 

They’d been hanging out, just shooting the shit and bored out of their skulls with nothing on the horizon for distraction. The record was done but not ready for release and they had no money to go out and make other shit happen. Jon sat against the headboard of the only bed, notepad balanced on one knee, acoustic in his lap and swigging cheap beer. Richie lay next to him on the rumpled double, staring up at the stucco ceiling while balancing his own not-quite-but-close-to empty on his sternum. Occasionally he’d hum a melody that ran through his head, fingering imaginary guitar strings on his stomach, annoying and inspiring Jon’s lyrical scribbles in turn.

No one was really sure where Alec was, even without cash the guy could find trouble to get into. Tico sat like a cross-legged zombie on one of the mattresses, drumsticks twirling between his fingers as he eyed the tiny television they’d stacked on a milk crate. Dave surfed through its channels at Tico’s side, but there weren’t that many, just a couple that weren’t fuzzy snow - and only provided the rabbit ears were bent just so. T grunted noncommittally as each picture clarified into some god awful midday soap and Dave dutifully tried the next one.

One of the channel flicks brought _The Wizard of Oz_ in all its glorious technicolor, or, as it was on their set, a kind of greyish-yellow tint. Tico snorted and for whatever reason compared Jon with Dorothy, “Following the road to fame and fortune but still just a momma’s boy ass wanting to go home”. Jon’s eyes widened in surprise before he turned to Richie and stage whispered that T must be the Tin Man then; a walking percussion instrument, so old he was all rusted up.

Dave called dibs on the Scarecrow (same hair) and claimed Alec as the lion and Richie remembers throwing up his hands, beer falling sideways onto his ribs and dregs seeping into his ratty t-shirt, as he cried, “What, I gotta be the fucking dog now?” Jon simply lost it, head tilted back against the headboard and hugging his guitar to his chest as he giggled like a 13 year old girl and Dave made dog jokes in the background. Tico just shrugged, like, whatever, and started tapping licks out on empty bottles with his sticks.

As Jon sat sniggering, muttering about lions and tigers and bears and sending himself off into further fits of laughter, eyes watering and tangled messy hair falling in his face, Richie thought that there were worse things in life than being Jon’s bitch. Pun intended. He’s been his faithful companion ever since. 

Richie’s job in the band has always been to be Jon’s right hand man, but it’s not a title that was ever spoken out loud. There was never a discussion. It wasn’t “I need a guitar player and a sidekick,” and it wasn’t as if Jon was so busy falling apart all over the place that he _needed_ someone to help him. It just kinda happened that way.

It’s worked out mostly because, personally, Richie’s always known that he’s a guy that needs connection. Affirmation. He needs affection from people to keep him sane. Maybe it comes from being an only child, or maybe it’s ‘cause he has incredibly low self-esteem. Who knows. He tries not to think about it too much, to be honest. He just likes to be wanted. Not ass-kissing and sucking up (not that it doesn’t go astray, if the mood is right) but to be the recipient of real genuine affection. And Jon gives him that.

The guys like to joke that Richie’s a sex fiend, and he fucking is, by their standards, but not for the reason they probably think (or maybe for exactly the reason they think, they know him better than he does at this point). It’s not like he has to get his dick wet or he’ll die. He just wants that moment, the pure joy of simply existing with another person (or heh, another two) and just _being_ with them with mutual goals. Connecting on an emotional level without any fucking baggage, just skin on skin.

He loves that moment with _all_ of them. With the leggy blondes and exotic brunettes, the ones with freckles on their thighs and the ones who swear like sailors when they come. He loves the ones that flirt, the ones that attack, the ones who look like the girl next door and fuck like the pros, the shy ones who blush and gasp so pretty. He loves the ones that know what they’re doing, the ones that want to be taught. The quiet ones, the screamers, the biters. Mostly, he likes the chicks, but he’s as easygoing as they come, so sometimes he’s liked the guys too. He’s more choosy with them, there’s more to worry about in terms of publicity, which is fucked, but is what it is.

Anyway, the point is, being Jon’s go-to guy has its benefits in regards to Richie’s needs for attention. Jon has a big heart that he guards like Fort-fucking-Knox and bigger eyes that go straight down into the vault. Richie has always marvelled at that contradiction, of putting up walls but leaving the doors wide open, but that’s just how Jon is. He’s not shy with his affection with Richie, particularly when they’re just kids in a big insane world, mere babes in over their heads. 

Jon leans on him, in the early years, figuratively and literally. They share hotel rooms and bottles of wine and late nights talking about music and hopes and dreams. Richie, in turn, shields Jon from what he can. Strokes his hair when the kid sacks out against him, a birdsnest of hairspray nestled on his shoulder. Picks up his guitar and plays the softer Beatles back catalogues when Jon needs to unwind; plays upbeat random shit when Jon needs to be picked up before a show. Whether Jon gets that Richie is doing it for him, he isn’t sure, but the blissed out smiles and shy nods of thanks makes him think he does.

Physically too, Jon is demonstrative. Mostly when they were young, dumb and full of come, as Richie likes to think of back then. They’d get off stage and be so high, emotionally and literally struggling not to shake to pieces, to come down without breaking. Times when Jon would drag Richie into their hotel room, fingers tight around his wrist, and just _need_ him. He’d push Richie up against the flimsy wood of shitty hotel room doors and mash their mouths together, tongues battling and hands groping to undo zips and belts and yank off spandex and leather so they could jerk each other hard and fast. 

It was never really more than that then, just mutual locker-room exploratory stuff. He’s always known Jon couldn’t give more than that, by the quiet rasping breath and otherwise silence of Jon’s guilt eating through him as soon as the come was cooling between their fingers. And that’s cool. Richie will take what he can get, will soothe and joke and jostle Jonny back into being himself again afterwards because that’s his job. It’s enough.

Later, when they’re older, Jon is still affectionate with him. It happens less, there’s perhaps only a handful of times when Jon has slipped his hotel key into Richie’s pocket before leaving a stadium. When Jon has opened the door to him with a half bottle of wine and a sorrowful emptiness that Richie wants nothing more than to fill up. 

Those times have been slower, taking the time to feel each other out. Still silent, but more honest. They still don’t go near actually ‘making love’ as Richie would term it. There’s still a good deal of clothing, no total nudity and nothing much more than rutting and handjobs in amongst caresses and stolen kisses. But there’s a bed (they’re _old_ , Jon complains, his knees won’t take it three hours on stage jumping around like an idiot) and Richie can pretend that it’s more than it’s professed to be. Knows, by the look in Jon’s eyes, the love there, that it _is_ more than Jon claims it to be.

As time goes on though, the gates to Jon’s heart start to close, the curtains drawn and the wizard moving behind them. Now Jon’s actually protecting himself from the ravages of time and industry rather than just fronting at it. Richie gets it and in a weird way, encourages it; he wants Jon to protect himself. He’s just so used to seeing that 19 year old kid with his heart on his sleeve when he looks at Jon that it’s jarring to discover Jon turned into a man when he wasn’t paying attention.

On stage they’re still fucking electric, hell, maybe even _more_ than they were as kids. Jon knows it, Richie knows it, stadiums full of fucking fans know it. Jon flirts with him, rubs against him, dances for him, sings to him. Kisses him, gropes him, rests against him, holds him. Grins for him; great flashing white teeth of joy. His Jonny. And Richie’s heart fucking sings, man, in those moments.

But it’s hard, when the cameras are on and Jon is so perfect. So controlled and poised and always saying the right thing (unless he’s pissed off and then deliberately saying the wrong thing, but it’s still the _perfect_ wrong thing). Anything truly personal is locked away secret. Richie feels like more often than not these days he’s on the outside of the lockdown.

Jon fidgets when Richie’s given the opportunity to talk in interviews, watches and listens like a hawk for a misstep he feels he needs to correct. It’s because Jon wants to control the message, has worked damned hard to build his band and its reputation. It isn’t _personal_ against Richie, except for how it feels that way. Like how it feels personal when Jon transfers his feelings about Richie away to ‘the music’ or ‘the band,’ when an interviewer asks what they mean to each other (they all ask).

It’s okay, though ‘cause he knows that Jon loves him. Richie’s flirtation with pills and reliance on booze damages Jon’s trust in him, and he gets that he has to win that back. And really, that distrust is just in public, you know? Away from the cameras and the microphones they’re brothers. More than brothers. They share families and parents and houses and lives with ease. They still write together in a way that feels like magic. In a way that makes Jon de-age and grin at him in excitement. 

Most of the time, that’s more than enough to keep Richie content.

There are times, though, when he gets the brush off, or the glare, or when Jon confides more in others than him, when it’s harder. When it hurts. But he just squashes the thoughts down and tries to be happy that his boy is all grown up. Don’t need Uncle Mookie to watch his back. 

Even if Jon is keeping him at arm’s length, it’s still Richie’s job to be Jon’s rudder. So he holds his tongue and keeps going to work, like Jon taught him to. He plays and he sings and he shows up and it’s all good, even if there’s something painful stabbing him in the stomach, eating away at his heart and lining his lungs with lead.

It’s been thirty years and Richie has been nothing but faithful. Loyal. Everything Jon needs, whenever he needs it. He just wishes that the rewarded affection, his fix, wasn’t quite so controlled. Doled out like spoonfuls of sugar whenever Richie does good. He gets a bit down, sometimes, is all. But he always pulls himself back up (most of the way).

He shows up late to recording one time and Jon gets really pissed. Jon gets angry at everyone now and again, that’s just Jon. He always gets over it and they all know it’s really just a manifestation of Jon’s insecurities (not that they’d ever say that to him) and subsequent need for perfection and control.

So it shouldn’t be a big deal, when he gets the patented bitch face. It’s just that usually Richie isn’t subjected to it, other people are. Sure, the band gets it up the ass when Jon is pissed, but usually Jon holds Richie exempt. 

And the thing is, Richie has always been there for Jon. He has done his duty and then some. For thirty fucking years. Should it matter so much if he comes late to the studio one time? The next week, Jon makes fun of him for it in a fucking interview, the one rule that no one in the band can break - airing dirty laundry in public. Richie knows he has a heart then because he feels it begin to break.

He finds himself thinking about the records he didn’t lay down, bands he didn’t front, friends he didn’t make because he had the only one he needed. It’s an insidious line of thought, and one he can’t easily dispel once it eats its way into his brain. They’re mean thoughts, and selfish ones, and Richie hates himself for even thinking them. None of those things are Jon’s fault. He would never blame Jon for the decision he himself made to stand in the man’s shadow (where he could catch him if he fell). 

But something detaches in him anyway, rattles around in him like a lost and vengeful ghost. It was never Richie’s way to wonder whether the scales were balanced, if he were getting enough, or anything, for what he gave Jon. Now, though, he wonders.

He keeps going, concert after concert. Each time a little sadder, a little more lonely after the event when he’s alone in a hotel room bigger than he needs. Not even booze to dampen the pain. He laughs at his patheticness and wallows in it anyway.

He keeps going. Until the day when he can’t pull himself up. The day when the thought of leaving the hotel room, of facing Jon, of getting his little dose of affection just isn’t enough. 

He gets some random roadie to call Jon and tell him he isn’t gonna be at the show that night, because he’s always known he was miscast. He’s always been the lion, the coward at heart. Too ashamed for living for someone elses life and failing at it too. He can’t bear the weight of one more disappointed glance when all he’s ever done is lived for Jon. Talk about ‘it’s my life’... he’s starting to realise he maybe never listened to their lyrics.

He gets on the first fucking plane out to LA from wherever the hell he is. That night he spends in his bedroom like a teenager shunning his parents, sprawled on the bed with a contraband bottle of Jack and guilt so heavy he thinks he might be crushed to death. 

He gets texts from Dave and Tico, asking what the fuck’s going on, but he ignores them. He gets nothing from Jon, but doesn’t expect to. He knows Jon, and he knows right now, Jon is fucking angry as all hell at him. And maybe, probably, also hurting. Betrayed by the best friend he forgot he needed. The booze makes Richie’s stomach hurt and his eyes leak tears down his cheeks as he lies in the dark.

The next morning the sun comes up. Richie was kind of expecting it wouldn’t. 

He has nothing to do and nowhere to be and the Jon-shaped hole in his soul is an aching, gaping wound. He answers the boys’ texts; admits, finally, that he’s just a coward, running from his troubles again. Another ‘Richie fucks up’ moment.

Dave replies almost instantly, the notification trilling loud and sharp in the quiet of the room. _“Nah man, you’re a far braver man than me. Respect.”_

Richie considers that, surprised. He feels the weight of the world on his conscience, the desperate wrongness of having someone not like him, of letting the band down, of not being where he’s meant to be at Jon’s side. It mostly just feels scary as all shit, to be on his own, to be just him. Just Richie. But maybe that means something after all.

He gets up, out of bed. Makes coffee. Opens curtains and looks at this alien home with new eyes. For the first time in his life, he thinks about what he could do. Not in between the band, not with Jon’s permission, not as a break, but as a commitment.

A week from now (a month, a year) he might kick his heels together and wish for no place like home. Whether Jon will have him back, he doesn't know. He’s not deluded, he knows, no matter how much introspection, self-discovery or personal growth he goes through, Jon is still and always will be his co-dependent ‘home’. He wouldn’t have it any other way despite what it says about him.

But for now, maybe he needs to take that step. Just a small one, by himself. Follow it with another as he makes his way down the yellow brick road.

Be a little bit brave.


End file.
